


Ar Sciatháin Sciobtha

by HiddenByFaeries



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dom!OMC(s), Drayche, F/M, M/M, Multi, Not Canon Compliant, Polyamory, Tri-Wizards AU, no beta we die like men, royal!Harry, sub!Harry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 00:59:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 17,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18084362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HiddenByFaeries/pseuds/HiddenByFaeries
Summary: Long ago, a Treaty was made between the Drayches and Magicals, that they would, essentially, mind their own business. Dumbledore must not have gotten the memo.





	1. an tús

**Author's Note:**

> ASS is an old HP fic I co-authored way back in '12 with a friend of mine. Originally, we had them posted on FFN and AFF, under both our usernames. Years later, I finally log onto AFF cause I got a review for ASS after.... many years... so, I decided to load what we had written on here!
> 
> I will also mention, the draconic magical creature we created, we used the HP Wiki's literal description of the dragon breeds.
> 
> I was the original beta reader/editor, so if there's any mistakes, that's on me.
> 
> like always, enjoy and let me know what you think!

**_The Beginning_ **

_ Centuries ago, in the time before Merlin, when Magic was Wilde and chose a certain human every few decades to be Her Wielder, a powerful race of magical beings rose up. From a mixture of Dragons Blood and Magic and Wildness they took shape, and their forms were humanoid, with decidedly draconic features, these being the colors and scales and temperaments of their Dragon cousins. They were named Drayches, and that was what they became. _

_ The first to rise were those from the blood of the Common Welsh Green Dragon, and these were declared the Ruling Clan. They all bore skin, hair, and scales in different shades of green, and often their eyes followed suit. The next to rise were those from the blood of the Hebridean Black Dragon, with their deep black skin, obsidian scales, black, jagged hair that formed a spike-like style, and their eyes always coming in a shade of some sort of red or purple. It was safe to say that tensions swiftly rose between the two Clans. _

_ The Swedish Short-Snout Clan rose next, with its members baring silvery-blue scales, pale blue or silver-tinged skin, hair leaning either way, and small horns curling up from the middle of their foreheads. And, soon after them, rose the Chinese Fireball Clan, with its members carrying the beautiful scarlet scales of their cousins, and golden blond hair that swirled around their heads in a curly mess, and their tolerance for mostly everyone with a few exceptions. _

_ The Peruvian Vipertooth Clan came next, with their shrewd, copper-scaled members, who held deeply tanned golden skin and black hair, with two sharp black horns spiraling back out from their temples and a venomous bite that could spell an excruciating death for any who irked them. They were, though, small in number due to a difficulty in their ability to reproduce, a small flaw that was what allowed them to keep their venomous bite, and were soon pushed to the side with the arrival of the Antipodean Opaleye Clan, who flew far from the Pacific Islands and spoke in fascinating languages. Their skin was like white alabaster, their scales small, luminescent pearls, their hair platinum blond or white, and their eyes pupil-less, multifaceted arrays of ever-shifting color, like prisms of light caught and held tightly within their skulls. They were, without a doubt, the most beautiful of the Drayches. _

_ Slipping from behind the Opaleye's grand entrance came four breeds all together, much fiercer but less elegantly made then the previous Drayches, and these four became Vassal's to the leading four Royal Lines. _

_ The Hungarian Horntails, with their rough brown skin, spiky black hair, large wings, and dangerously spiked tail became Vassals to the Welsh Green Line. The Norwegian Ridgebacks, with their deep brown skin, black ridges, venomous bite, and mildly aggressive attitude became Vassals for the Hebridean Black Line. The Romanian Longhorns, with their dark green skin, curving gold horns, and large, bulky bodies became Vassals to the Swedish Short-Snout Clan. And finally, the Ukrainian Ironbelly, with their dark red eyes, silver-gray skin and scales, and who were much, much larger than any of the other Drayches, became the Vassals to the Chinese Fireball Clan. _

_ Of course, this was long before their Dragon cousins even bore these names, and so the Clans named themselves. The Welsh Green became the Fflamddwyn. The Hebridean Blacks became the Brandubh. The Short-Snouts were the Einar. The Fireballs became the He-ping. The Vipertooths named themselves the Marquez. The Opaleyes had decided on the name Alohanani. And the Vassal Branches also named their Clans, the Horntails becoming the Maks, the Ridgebacks becoming the Halvard, the Longhorns becoming the Streiter, and, finally, the Ironbellies becoming the Kostyantyn. _

_ Carrying their names, in many different languages, the ten Drayche Clans settled into their territories in the Wilde, and set about ruling their small kingdoms and lands, making contracts with one another, fighting feuds, and, once or twice a year, gathering on Neutral Ground for a Ball, where all the eligible Drayches would get the chance to meet all the prospective Mates, safely mock rivals, and make political deals without having to worry about someone spitting a fireball in anyone's face. _

_ This continued for many years, until, that is, Magic finally decided it was time to have more than one Wielder at a time, and blessed the land with the first and most powerful of her magical, human children, the Wixen, who, being Neutral in nature, naturally leaned towards either the Light or Dark side of Her Gift. _

_ And so, Merlin stepped into the world as the very first Lord of Light, and, standing opposite of him, Morgana stepped out of the shadows as the Lady of Dark, two sides of the Magical Coin, and they found a temporary truce between themselves when it came to the Drayches. _

_ For here were beings that had been around and had learned long ago how to harness their magic to its fullest extent and, thanks to the blood that flowed through their veins, the scales that decorated their skins, Wizarding Magic was nigh useless against them except in large, strong quantities, or when dealing with their blood directly, as that held properties within that made it especially susceptible to magic. _

_ The Lord of Light and the Lady of Dark approached the current King of the Drayches with a proposal, hoping to stop any and all conflicts between their races before they could even begin. Interested in this concept, the Drayche King agreed to negotiate, and the three of them began to create what would forever be known as the Treaty of Síochána (Peace). _

_ Within the Treaty, it was agreed that the two races would never seek to pull the other into their affairs, be they wars, feuds, political or personal problems, or anything else. As such, they could not ask for assistance in any way, shape, or form, as this could constitute a breaking of the Treaty, which, they had agreed (two against one, with Merlin being outvoted) that the culprit who ever did so would immediately be handed over to the opposite, "injured", party as punishment, and they could do as they thought best. This, they decided, would keep any later Dark Lords/Ladies or Light Lords/Ladies from attempting to garner them as allies in their squabbles, and would also keep the Drayche Kings/Queens own subjects from seeking out Wizarding assistance in their political shadow games against one another, and himself. _

_ They also placed within the Treaty a section dealing with the Drayches cousins, the Dragons, whose form they had learned the ability to take. It was Morgana who suggested Magically protected Reserves in deserted areas where Wilde Magic was strong and would feed any Wards that were placed. And it was Merlin who suggested a specialized sort of Wix, who trained and studied for the task, to be allowed to take on the roll as Caretaker for the more feral, less intelligent creatures. _

_ Thus, it was King Balendin Fflamddwyn that placed the stipulation that every such Wix should sign a Magical contract, stating that they would not speak, mention, nor give any indication in any way, shape or form, as to any meeting with any Drayches who visited their Draconic cousins, nor any information that that Wixen might glen from a sighting of any such Drayche, and that the signing of the Contract was to be mandatory. As a consolation for this, seemingly severe, protection of his race's secrecy, King Balendin agreed that any Dragon who died of natural causes, or gave indication before death of consent, could have its precious organs and other body parts removed for spell- and potion-work. _

_ A section was also made that, should interspecies Mating occur, any child that results will immediately belong to the mother, unless she revoked her claim, or until the child came to the age of fourteen, when the father could then gain custody of the teen. Merlin was, again, outvoted by the other two on this, and agreed to it only with the stipulation that the mother  _ **_had_ ** _ to inform the child of their fathers nature and existence, and that the father had to allow the child the  _ **_choice_ ** _ of whether or not to leave their mother. Morgana was, surprisingly, the one to be reluctant about this condition, but grudgingly agreed when King Balendin did so with a pleased expression. _

_ Finally, the three beings picked up a blood quill, and signed the Treaty, and, in doing so, signed it for all those under their jurisdiction. All Light Wixen, all Dark Wixen, and, since the two Governing Powers signed together during a truce, and Neutral Wixen as well, were immediately bound by the Treaty. As the first of his kind, and most powerful, and as King of the Drayches, King Balendin's signature assured the obedience of the Treaty in all Drayches living and yet to come. _

_ And so, the three went their separate ways, each carrying a copy of the Treaty of Síochána, to be placed in a place of importance, where all those of their ilk could read its conditions and agreements and know just what they could and could not do. _

_ Centuries passed, and there  _ **_were_ ** _ those who dared to challenge the Treaty, both Wixen and Drayches alike. And all of them were dealt with accordingly. The Drayches grew and shrank in number depending on just how bad their feuds and squabbles got, and a few Clans split into smaller groups. A small group of the Fflamddwyn Clan, who did not find Royal Life agreeing with them, split off to live as the Onllwyn Clan, pampered but without much responsibility. A group of the He-ping Clan, who did not agree with arranged marriages, took themselves away to become the Yun Clan, and marry whomever they liked (to both the delight and anger of several other Clans). And, as these splits were made, the youngest Drayche breed of all finally rose up, a breed that was much like that of the Vassal's, but held with them the elegance and intelligence of the Royal breeds. _

_ These were the Drayches raised from the blood of the Portuguese Long-Snout Dragon. They bore their Draconic cousins pale green scales, with lightly tanned skin, and totally black eyes that lacked the white sclera and held no pupil that could be seen. Two curving, ivory horns rose from their temples, thick but short, and short, curly black hair was their average, though one or two had been spotted with a lighter brown. They settled themselves in as the Ricardo Clan, and were, in essence, the Clan to go to if you wanted a neutral party involved. They weren't interested in any of the older Royals problems, but weren't afraid to straight out tell another Clan that they were being stupid if the situation called for it. They were also willing to harbor other Drayches in their territory for however long it took for their issues to be resolved. _

_ A few more centuries passed, and the world evolved, Drayches and Wixen sliding farther into the shadows to wage their personal wars against their own species, while the Muggles, those poor humans without Magic's Gift, remained blissfully unaware. And the Treaty kept the two Magical Species from eradicating one another, unchallenged in any major way. _

_ Until the year nineteen-eighty, when the Lord of Light, Albus Dumbledore, made a choice that would shake both species to the very core. _


	2. Falls an Tiarna de Solas chun Scáth

**_The Lord of Light Falls to Shadow_ **

**_June 20_ ** **_th_ ** **_, 1980, 4:27 PM_ **

Albus Dumbledore stared in blank surprise at the Wix sitting across from him in his office at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He couldn’t have heard that right.

“You’re… leaving?” He asked hesitantly. James Potter nodded. “Leaving London?” he asked with no small amount of hope; the young Auror shook his head.

“Lily and I are leaving Britain, Albus,” he said, hazel eyes serious behind his smart, oval glasses. Albus felt a small surge of panic, pushed back by the firm grip he held over his Occlumency shields.

“May I ask why?” James sighed and dragged a hand through his naturally tousled black hair, face tightening with a look of such stark grief that Albus was taken aback.

“Lily lost the baby,” he said simply; Albus’ mind stuttered and came to a halt.

“What?” he whispered; James nodded, eyes brightening as he swallowed harshly, closing his eyes tightly.

“The Mediwitch said it was because of all the stress thanks to the war,” he said quietly. “That she’d been feeling too much pressure and worry and that it affected the baby until…” he couldn’t finish, and merely bowed his head with a deep sound of pain. Albus sat, stunned for a few moments, before he wrenched his mind back into gear, thoughts running furiously. He could not allow the youngest Auror in a century and a powerful Charms Mistress to leave in the middle of a war!

“I am so sorry for your loss, my boy,” he said quietly, getting up and walking around his desk to crouch before the distraught young man, placing a hand on his shoulder. James grabbed it and gripped it tightly as tears began to slide down his cheeks, looking up at the older man with grief-wild eyes.

“I don’t know what to do, Albus!” He gasped, voice choked. “Lily… Lily is inconsolable, she won’t even let me touch her! She just sits in the nursery and touches all of the baby’s things. I don’t know what to do…” he sobbed and Albus tightened his hand, and let him, a plan forming in his mind.

“I believe I have a solution,” he said quietly; James gave a shuddering, deep breath as he tried to calm himself, and looked up at the powerful Wix with grief-filled eyes. “I have a colleague who will be giving birth soon,” he told the Auror quietly. “She is putting the child up for adoption. I am sure she would not mind if you were to receive the babe instead, and, I could even perform the Blood Adoption myself, so that only the four of us would be aware of the child’s true origins.” James stared up at him.

“A child…” he murmured. “I-I must go speak with Lily,” he said, scrambling to his feet, eyes bright with an intensity that had been sorely lacking since he had entered the Headmaster’s Office half an hour before. “Please, contact your friend, Albus, and tell her that we may be interested. I need to go now. Thank you, Albus, thank you so much!” 

With a tearful, grateful smile, the young Auror threw a handful of green ash into the fireplace, stepped into the resulting emerald flames, shouted out his desired destination, and spun away. Albus waited a few minutes, before he stood and strode to the armoire, reaching inside and pulling out a very special pale orange scroll, with an insignia that looked like a flying serpent on it. He carefully opened it, and picked up his favorite self-inking quill, and wrote a short message in bright, acid-green ink.  

 

**_Must meet, have need of assistance, mutual satisfaction to be gained._ **

**_Phoenix_ **

 

That finished, he pricked his thumb and dripped three bright red dollops of blood under his pseudonym, and watched as his message glowed gold before melting away, to rewrite themselves on an identical scroll in his colleague’s possession. He closed the scroll and set it aside, and sat back, tapping his age-narrowed fingers on his desk-top in silence as he peered around himself in contemplation.  _ Perhaps I should redecorate, _ he thought absently. The orange scroll gave off a soft tinkling sound, like pieces of broken glass falling against a porcelain counter top, and the Wix swiftly unrolled it to read the message within.  

**_Two hours, usual place._ **

**_Better be worth it, old man._ **

**_Wolf Queen_ **

Immensely pleased with the outcome of what could have been a dreadful day, Albus leaned back in his chair and finally allowed himself to relax, if only a little. An hour later, he was interrupted by James’ head in his fire, telling him that the Potters were  _ definitely _ willing to adopt the child of his ‘colleague’ and that Lily was already getting back to her old self.

At a quarter ‘til, the old Wix dressed in what must have been his  _ only _ set of black robes, hiding his waist-length white beard inside and keeping the hood the robes held up over his head. He tweaked the schools Wards and Disapparated with a sharp  _ crack _ . He reappeared at the mouth of Knockturn Alley, and strode in without any hesitation, moving towards the darker areas until he reached a pub that had no name, and stepped inside, moving toward a table in the back, weaving through the hazy atmosphere and drunken Dark Wizards and Witches with ease until he reached his desired seat.

And the person already waiting for him there, clothed similarly, but with elegant black gloves added.

“Why you insist on this place to meet, I shall never understand, my dear,” he said quietly as he took his seat, and a feminine chuckle slid out from under the shadows of the deep cowl that hid his companions face.

“I like the atmosphere, old man,” she replied in a throaty, deep voice, idly dragging her index finger around the rim of her dirty glass of what looked like Firewhiskey. Albus chuckled softly and refrained from commenting further. “Now, what is this assistance you require, and what would I gain, hmm?” Dumbledore settled his elbows on the table, meshing his fingers and peered over them from beneath his own hood, blue eyes cold and serious.

“I need a newborn baby,” he said simply, calmly. “Preferably one of your ilk, and I need it by the thirty-first.” His companion was silent.

“And  _ how _ exactly would this help me?” she asked, lifting her glass to take a sip.

“You would lose a competitor for your children,” he said simply, knowing exactly what the other would do to make sure her spawn would get a foothold in the world. “They would have an opening to step into, if you happen to bring me a child from one of the older families, that is.” She was silent, contemplating.

“The thirty-first you say?” she asked; Albus nodded once, simply. “May I inquire…?”

“You may not,” he said sharply, a spike of his magic making several patrons around them shift and glance over at them warily. “Beware, Guadalupe, you overstep your bounds.” His companion snorted and he got the feeling that she was sneering at him.

“Beware yourself,  _ Albus _ , for you, too, tread where no mortal should. We are testing the Treaty and if we are caught-”

“We will not be,” Albus interrupted with the utmost confidence, voice firm and grim. “Now, do we have an agreement?” Silence, and then his companion gave a jerky nod.

“There is a child due on that day,” she informed him quietly. “I shall bring it to you.” They nodded to one another and stood, neither even attempting to offer the other their hand.

“Until then,” she said simply.

“Until then.” And Albus Disapparated, leaving the nameless Knockturn Alley pub with a pleased expression, unseen beneath his cowl.

His plans would still continue. Nothing had changed. Settling behind his desk, he popped a lemon drop in his mouth and gave a pleased hum, lacing his fingers together over his chest as he leaned back in his chair, smiling faintly. Now, all he had to do was wait until the thirty-first, and his colleague would provide the main instrument in his greatest chess game yet.

Tom wouldn’t know what hit him.  

***~*~*~***

**_July 31st, 1980, 1:55 AM_**

King Cadwaladr Fflamddwyn paced in the atrium outside of the room his Beta Queen, Tanwen Onllwyn, was secluded in, giving birth to what would be his second born child.

“Be calm, husband,” his Alpha Queen, Xiao-xing He-ping, said with exasperation in her voice, her scarlet-scaled golden arms wrapped around the sleepy form of their son, Cadwaladr’s Heir, Cynfaen, who bore mint green skin, dark green streaks in his wild mane of hair, and left acid green eye from his father, while carrying gold scales, fire red streaks to go with the green in his hair, and a right eye that was the same balefully bright yellow as his mother's.

The seven-year-old had been bouncing off the walls not two hours before, eager to see his little brother or sister, but had since tuckered himself out. Cadwaladr flinched as a furious shriek rippled out from beyond the door that stood between him and his latest mate, and a snarl curved the Drayches King's lips, exposing his fangs, before he once again began to furiously pace, reaching up to drag his fingers through his messy, spiked emerald hair, his dark green skin flushing slightly under the amused look his first mate was giving him, making his pale green scales and eyes stick out even more.

"I cannot help it, my love," he murmured, his melodious voice, like all of his kind, soothing and soft despite the anxiety that leaked through it clearly. Xiao-xing shook her head, tossing her wild gold hair over her shoulder and standing to hand their dozing son off to her personal Vassal, Hryhoriy of the Kostyantyn Clan.

The massive, ponderous Vassal gently took the Crown Prince in his arms with a slow nod, blinking his large, dark red eyes as if he, himself, were considering a nap, though a keen intelligence and shrewdness glinted within that silver-gray face, decorated with darker silver-gray scales. Cynfaen muttered a sleepy complaint, but Hryhoriy merely shifted the young Crown Prince up onto his shoulder, one massive hand settling on his charges back, and the child settled, soon falling asleep.

Xiao-xing nodded, and turned her attention to her still-pacing husband with exasperated fondness lining her face, sliding up to him and slipping her arms around his trim waist, forcing him to stop and instinctively wrap his own arms around her, as she settled her head against his chest and closed her gleaming yellow eyes with a soft sigh.

"Tanwen is fine, my love," she said simply, quietly. "That silly Onllwyn wouldn't let something like this keep her down for long." Cadwaladr snorted softly in amusement, burying his nose in his Alpha Queen's wild mane of silky, golden hair, breathing in her scent of nutmeg, cinnamon, and honey with relish.

Theirs had been an arranged marriage when they had been eleven, true, between their fathers, but love had blossomed between them not a year before they were to be wed. And now, a year after he had taken his second Queen, their family was growing. In a few more years, he would take his standard third Queen, and he would keep them all close and cherished, and their children well-protected and well-loved by all.

The door to the room opened, and the pair looked up. In the doorway stood a lean, tall woman with pale blue skin, silvery-blue scales, silver hair, and a pair of small, curving blue-black horns arching up from the center of her forehead. Turquoise eyes blinked at them, before she gave them a warm smile and a low curtsy.

"Your Majesties," she said in a higher-pitched voice that had a strange vibrato effect. Xiao-xing smiled slightly in welcome.

"Valkyrie," she greeted the Einar Midwife, who had also been her own Midwife, with warmth. Cadwaladr inclined his head, but his pale green eyes were bright and intense, and the Midwife knew better then to try and keep the King from his mate and child.

"She is well, as is your new son," Valkyrie informed him with a gentle smile, and stepped out of the doorway. "She will be tired, though, and the babe will probably be a bit fussy for a while yet." The King nodded, and then strode into the room, leaving his Alpha Queen to share an amused look with her friend, before she slipped into the room after him.

She found him giving an exhausted, pale Tanwen a long, gentle kiss, leaning over her on the bed, and just paused to observe the two for a moment. Tanwen's grass-green skin, acid-green scales, and lush, dark green hair blazed against the black and white monochrome of her bed coverings, and her tired bottle-green eyes smiled up at their husband tenderly even as her mouth tilted wryly.

" _ Your _ son," she declared, poking her taller husband in the chest with her right hand as her left cradled the bundle of what must have been their child close, "is  _ definitely _ a Fflamddwyn. He wasn't going to come out unless he did it  _ his _ way, when  _ he _ wanted, and that was that!"

Cadwaladr laughed, and a soft wail rose from the blue bundle in the tired woman's arms. She obligingly handed it over to her husband when he carefully reached for it, and watched as he gently uncovered his sons scrunched face, Xiao-xing moving over to look at her own child's little brother.

He had the same pale, mint-green skin as Cynfaen did, dusted with the, as yet, tiny scales that were a deep emerald green. His hair was messy but already showing his father's natural spikiness, and was a bright spring-leaf green. And, when he squinted his eyes open to glower unhappily up at them all, the bright, acid-green of his eyes was a beautiful, breathtaking sight. He continued to wail, the musical voice of his Clan turned grating and strident in his displeasure, and Xiao-xing and Tanwen shared wry grins.

"He has quite the pair of lungs on him, doesn't he?" Tanwen mused; Xiao-xing nodded.

"He's perfect," Cadwaladr said reverently, placing a soft kiss on the squalling child's forehead.

"What shall you name him?" Xiao-xing asked curiously.

"Fidencio," Tanwen said without hesitation; Cadwaladr grinned.

" _ That's _ perfect," he told her, leaning over to give her a peck on the lips. "The perfect name for a perfect little Prince."

They remained in that room for an hour, watching as Fidencio fed and then slept, and then they moved to their personal chambers, Cadwaladr carrying Tanwen the entire way while she cuddled their child to her chest, and Xiao-xing following with an amused smile. They laid the newborn in his crib in the room joined to theirs by a door, and the King took his Queens' to bed with loving kisses and tender caresses.

A few hours later, while they were sleeping, little Fidencio woke in his crib but remained quiet, looking around himself in silence, as much as he could look around, that is. Mostly, he looked up, through the large glass dome over his crib that allowed him to see the night sky clearly. Though he didn't know it, the window was enchanted to only show the night, showing a copy of the previous night during daylight hours while showing the actual night otherwise.

Little Fidencio watched the stars in silence, until a large form came out of the dark, shapeless to his infant eyes. He scrunched his nose as the large form landed over his window, blocking out the stars and crescent moon, and set large talons against the glass.

It leaned forward, a flash of copper in the weak moonlight, and there was a hiss as something dripped from its mouth onto the side of the window, and, a few minutes later, it was lifting the entire skylight away, letting a warm breeze enter the room. Fidencio stared up at the copper-colored creature who smelled like something that hurt his nose, and whined low in his throat, face scrunching.

The creature shifted and disappeared in a flickering of copper lights, though, catching and distracting the infants attention, and now there crouched a woman at the mouth of what once had been his skylight. Copper scales laced dark gold skin, and black hair curled to her shoulders. Two black, spiraling horns curved back from her temples and she smirked down at him coldly, exposing strangely long, thin fangs that glimmered oddly in weak lighting.

"Hello, little Prince," she said in a deep, throaty voice, and made a flicking 'come here' motion with her hand. Fidencio made a startled sound as he was lifted, blanket and all, right out of his crib and into the air, floating up out of the skylight until he was suddenly in the woman's arms and she was smirking down at him.

"I would apologize," she told him in an absent minded way, "but then again, I'm not really all that sorry." And then she was covering them in a strange way, fracturing off the light around them, until they blended in like a chameleon, and she strode away, leaping from roof to roof until she reached the ground. She plucked a black cloak with a long hood off of a post and pulled it on, wrapped little Fidencio tightly in his blanket, and, with a sharp twist of her Magic, they disappeared from the Fflamddwyn Castle grounds.

Meanwhile, in the castle, the Royal Family slept on for a few more hours, until they were roused by Tanwen's personal Vassal, Bernadette of the Maks Clan, who had been charged with checking on the newborn Prince once every two hours. She informed them of how she had been hit from behind with a spell of some sort, and had only just woken, her wings shifting and mantling in desperate agitation. When she had rushed to the princes room…

Queen Tanwen's wail and King Cadwaladr's roar were heard throughout the castle, and a search for the missing infant was instigated immediately, but no clue was found, besides the open skylight with its melted sides. The kingdom grieved for the loss of its newest member, all but Tanwen, who was nearly fanatical in her firm belief that her son was alive, a feeling she described as a warmth beneath her heart. As the years would pass and the kingdom moved on, she would, in secret, send out her own spies to search everywhere for her missing child.

She was aided in this endeavor by her best friends and confidants, Xiao-xing and Valkyrie who, six years after Fidencio's disappearance, became Cadwaladr's third and final Queen, and, nine months later, gave birth to twin girls who both had pastel green skin, silver-blue scales, dark green hair with silvery-blue streaks, and metallic blue-green eyes, as well as their mothers horns. The first born was named Blodwen, and she was quiet and calm and sweet, while her sister, Glennette, proved to be outspoken, bossy, and mischievous. The two were viciously protected, and were never seen without their mothers personal Vassal, Luminita of the Streiter Clan.

It was many years before Fidencio was seen again.

***~*~*~***

**_July 31st, 1980, 12:00 PM_ **

Albus was once again in the nameless little pub in Knockturn Alley, this time arriving before his colleague, something that very rarely happened. He sat and pondered risking a drink ten minutes later when she finally arrived, striding straight to him and unceremoniously dropping her bundle in his lap.

"One newborn baby, as requested," she said, voice smug. "And before you ask, yes, he's alive, merely drugged. I grew tired of his damn yowling." Giving the woman a dry look, Albus shifted the blanket covering the infant the slightest bit, just enough so he could peek under it, and hissed out a breath when he caught sight of green skin, scales, and hair. No doubt the child had green eyes to go with the rest of him.

"Are you  _ mad _ ," he wondered aloud. "When I asked for a child of your ilk, I didn't mean get one of the  _ Royal Family _ , you know." He gave her a baleful look when she chuckled and sprawled in a chair across from him.

"A child from a lesser branch would hardly open doors for my own children, old man," she told him without a hint of anything but smug satisfaction in her voice. "My Maritza is going to be a candidate for Princess, now that old Cadwaladr is going to be so distraught over the disappearance over his Secondary Heir, and when he and his harpies die off, she shall be a Queen. I can only hope the child I am carrying now will be so lucky," she said with a wistful tone, placing one black-gloved hand over her belly. Albus shook his head slightly and stood, and she did as well.

They nodded to one another, and went their separate ways without a backward glance. Albus was unable to Apparate or Portkey with a newborn, especially as Wizard Magic wouldn't work on the child, and he'd be more likely to get them both splinched than anything else.

So, instead, he called the Knight Bus, and rode in unsteady silence to Hogsmeade, and walked up to the empty school after that. He had two stolen vials of blood and a highly illegal Blood Ritual to enforce a human Glamour to do before James and Lily arrived for the Blood Adoption, and he needed to move quickly.

It really was a good thing Blood Magic worked on Drayches, or he wouldn't be able to make the brat out as human at all.

***~*~*~***

**_July 31st, 1980, 1:55 PM_ **

Lily and James both finished adding their blood to the potion and then watched as it was dripped onto a Rune cut onto the crying baby's chest. The Rune flashed brightly twice, and the wound instantly healed, the Rune disappearing, and, as they watched, the previously brown haired, blue eyed baby changed.

His hair became James' black mess, and, when he squinted open his tearful eyes, they were a green even brighter then Lily's own. The redhead gasped and scooped the boy up, cuddling him close and peppering him with kisses, cuddling him almost desperately and giving her husband a trembling smile when he wrapped his arm around her waist.

"What are we going to name him, Lils?" the Auror asked softly, one large hand reaching over to lightly stroke down the crying infants messy black hair, marveling at the velvety texture.

"Harry," she said, and gave him a wide, tearful smile. "Harry James Potter." And, standing a few feet away, Albus Dumbledore smiled to himself, pleased that his plan would continue on.

A year and a half later, the Dark Lord Voldemort stormed Godric's Hollow and killed James in his living room. He then went up the stairs and into the nursery, and killed Lily while she begged him to let Harry live.

And, as the Killing Curse sped towards the small toddler who was standing against the bars, staring at him, there was a moment before it hit, when the evil Wizard could have sworn that he'd seen scales on the youngest Potters forehead, right before the spell hit, and was sent ricocheting back to slam into the gaping Dark Wizard's chest, to send his body to ashes and his torn, wraith of a soul screaming into the night.

And little Harry Potter was left, blinking in confusing in his crib, without a single mark on him, wondering why his mother was sleeping on the floor.


	3. Dathanna de Ghlas

**Shades of Green**

 

_ 'I'm going to die,' _ Harry thought in sudden, painful clarity as he sat in the Champions tent, awaiting his turn to face the Dragon and steal the golden egg. His green eyes were dazed as he stared blankly down at the tiny, vicious form of the animated Hungarian Horntail model in his lap. The miniature Dragon was arching and prowling about on his thighs, spitting gouts at random, wings fluttering in agitation, spikes shifting forward and back as it skulked.

Absently, Harry stroked a single finger from its head to its deadly tail, making it give a high-pitched growl of pleasure that would have been amusing in any other situation. _'_ _How am I supposed to out-fly a massive creature born with wings?'_ he wondered, listening in the back of his mind to the cheers of the crowd as Cedric did something while facing his Swedish Short-Snout. Now that he considered it, Moody's suggestion was stupid, dangerous, and made no sense.

Harry knew that, as a Gryffindor, he was expected to have a certain amount of brash rashness and a stupid amount of bravery, but  _ seriously _ ! He was fourteen bloody years old and they were making him face a bloody  _ Dragon _ ! And he would be doing it with next to no moral support from anyone in the school, because they all thought he was an attention seeking prat, when he'd never  _ attempted _ or even  _ thought _ of putting his name in that bloody stupid cup!

_ 'Ah, but you're Harry Potter!' _ he mentally mocked himself with a small, bitter smile.  _ ' _ **_Of course_ ** _ you'd be a Champion, you do the impossible on accident!' _ He closed his eyes briefly in pain. He had been  _ relieved _ when the Age Restriction had been applied to the Tri-Wizard Tournament, because it meant he wouldn't have to participate, and he'd be allowed to just sit out on the sidelines and  _ watch _ without needing to do  _ anything _ .

But  _ noooo _ , he couldn't have a bloody  _ break _ for once, now could he? Harry's lips thinned as his eyes burned, and he stubbornly forced the tears back, hands remaining gentle as he once again stroked the miniature Horntail, who was curling and rubbing against him like a cat.

He refused to cry.

He hadn't cried when Dudley and his gang beat him up. He hadn't even when Uncle Vernon had broken his arm that one time he'd pulled him from his cupboard too hard. He hadn't cried when the hunger had gnawed at his insides like a living thing after over a week of nothing but water and the occasional piece of burnt toast. He hadn't cried, not since he was three and his Aunt Petunia had told him that his parents were dead, and how. She had slapped him across the face immediately after he'd started, and told him that Freaks weren't allowed to cry, and he'd gone to his cupboard for three days without food.

He would  _ not _ cry now. Not when he was about to step out into what amounted as a Gladiator's Arena, to be murdered for the amusement of the bloody crowd and government. Not when he had lost almost everyone for the  _ second time _ since he'd entered this damned, fickle world.

Anger rose up, eating through the dark despair that had begun to plague him. No, he wouldn't give them the pleasure of his tears, not when he'd denied his own relatives for the last thirteen years. He lifted his eyes, watching with hard, narrowed eyes, as Fleur was escorted out for her own match with the Common Welsh Green, and a growl tore from his mouth, quiet and soft, with a strange, melodious quality.

Viktor shot him a strange look, and the Horntail model in his lap reared onto its hind-legs, setting its forelegs against his stomach, and began to claw its way to his shoulder as he didn't move, his resolve and determination firm and unflinching as he prepared to face this one, last obstacle. The growl quieted to a mere vibrating in his throat as he settled in to mentally go over every spell he knew, and try to come up with a plan that would at  _ least _ give him a good chance at coming out of this alive.

Viktor left several minutes later, still occasionally casting the youngest Champion those strange, vaguely curious looks. Harry breathed deeply, trying to keep his thundering heart in check as his turn grew steadily closer, the furious roars of the Chinese Fireball turning to pained screeches as the crowd screamed and cheered and shouted like the glory-and-blood-hungry vultures they were. Harry bitterly remembered all the times in the last four years where they cried his name in joy, only to turn around and hiss it like a curse, then to pivot and return to the previous state as if nothing had happened, and expecting him to just accept it for what it was.

He probably would have, too, if he wasn't forced to continue in this damnable Tournament, and if they weren't out there, eager to watch as he fought for his life, like it was all some perverse form of sport for them, the voyeuristic fans, screaming and howling for more like demons. _'_ _And to think,_ ' he reflected with no small amount of bitterness, _'that if I_ ** _do_** _somehow manage to come through this alive, they'll all be pawing at my coattails again, the eager dogs who bite the hand that feeds them and still expect him to be stupid enough to feed them with his fingers again. Bastards, the lot of them.'_ He absently lifted a hand to stroke the Horntail model as it nuzzled its spiked, rough head against his neck, rumbling out high-pitched, crooning growls.

Finally, McGonagall was pulling open the tent-flap, and it was Harry's turn. He stood and walked through the opening, gently handing the Horntail model over to his professor after giving the little thing a stern look.

"Behave," he told it, and received a grudgingly accepting growl in reply. The fourteen-year-old gave his professor a grim, self-mocking smile, turned and strode out into his Arena, head held high, eyes cold and hard, ready to face his death once more and concentrating on his plan, grateful he'd allowed Hermione to pound so many new spells into his brain over the last month or so.

His eyes trailed around the space he had to work in, ignoring the shouts and cheers and insults from the crowd as he remained perfectly still, taking in the situation. The Horntail was lying down in front of her eggs, the golden one he needed set right in the middle. The massive Dragon was watching him with narrowed, mustard-yellow eyes, vertical slits narrowing and widening as it focused on him and nastily-spiked tail twitching like a cats as the crowd started to quiet, confused by Harry's lack of movement.

Harry eyed the massive Creature, and was eyed in return, before he glanced at the eggs, considering his plans, back-up plans, and random bits of ideas that could or could not come in handy, depending on the Horntail's reaction. Finally, after five minutes of simply standing there, he nodded to himself and began to cautiously move towards the closest boulder, eyes remaining on the Dragon. She gave a loud, thunderous growl in warning, tail lashing harder, as Harry disappeared behind the large rock. Quietly, he pulled out his wand and pointed it at himself.

" _ Ad Invisibilis _ ," he whispered, and grimaced at the itchy, spiders-crawling-along-his-skin feeling as his magic slowly turned him invisible. It wouldn't last longer than ten minutes, and it didn't hide any noises he made, or his scent, but Harry was cautiously optimistic that it would at least get him close. He'd just have to be quick, because when the spell dispersed, it tended to do so with a loud crackling sound. Peeking around the side of the rock, he watched the Dragon, before hesitantly stepping out into the open and taking a few large steps away from his protection.

The Dragon's eyes never shifted away from the rock, her tail continuously moving, spikes scraping the ground harshly. Harry nodded to himself, pleased, and returned to standing behind the rock. He didn't want to give up his position with his next spell, after all. First, he cast the Bubble-Head Charm on himself, though. Then he stuck his wand out from behind the rock, aiming for the area directly in front of the Horntail.

" _ Fumos _ ," he said with a sharp circular motion of his wand that ended in a jab. Immediately, thick, acrid-smelling black smoke poured from his wand tip and set to filling the space in front of the Dragon, who reared up, her wings mantling in alarm as she snarled at the oncoming smoke.

Harry didn't waste any time, running around the opposite side of his boulder and zigzagging through the rocks well-away from the smoke, which the Horntail had begun to attack with her flames, wing-claws holding her steady, and forcing most of the smoke away. He barely made it around the creatures lashing tail unscathed, and cautiously stared up at the eggs, lips pursed. He once more pointed his wand at himself.

" _ Ascendio _ ," he murmured, and flinched slightly as he shot into the air, over shooting the eggs, and began to fall. " _ Arresto Momentum! _ " he hissed in alarm, and almost sighed as he abruptly began to hover, then slowly descend into the middle of the 'nest'. He cast wary eyes toward the Dragon, who was now looking around warily, sitting up, wings spread slightly to defend her brood more fully.  _ 'Too bad I'm already in her nest,' _ Harry thought idly, before he began to inch his way around the many eggs, slowly making his way to the middle, where the golden egg rested. He reached out a hand to grab it-

And that is when the Invisibility Spell ended with the sound of a thousand plastic and paper bags being shaken viciously. Harry's head shot up, the crowd screamed, and the Horntail was suddenly there, snatching him from her nest and dropping him to the ground, his wand flying from his hand, his glasses tumbling off to shatter with the tinkle of glass against stone.

He landed with a nasty  _ crack _ as his left leg took most of the fall, crying out in pain, and then again as one massive, clawed hind-foot pinned him in a way reminiscent to a falcon with its prey. Horntail reared back, wings flung wide, and roared her triumph, a gout of flames rocketing into the sky. Harry struggled, the pain from his leg making the world gray-tinged, and his lack of wand felt all the more keenly because of it. Horntail bared her fangs and leaned down, taking a deep breath-

And froze, yellow eyes staring at him unblinkingly. She took another slow, deep breath. And another. Abruptly, she released him, the clawed 'hands' of her wings landing on either side of him, boxing Harry in, as she leaned her massive head down and snuffled at his frozen form. His breath hitched at the hot, acrid smell and feel of her breath against his skin, his pain-fogged memory straining towards something, egged on by her massive, brown-black form above him.

_ 'She's not the right color,' _ he thought dazedly, and then wondered why he thought she should be copper.

The Horntail let out a low, crooning growl, and lifted her head, eyeing his prostrate form, before her yellow eyes narrowed and she took a deep breath.  _ 'This is it,' _ Harry thought closing his eyes.  _ 'I wonder if being burnt alive hurts horribly?' _ The sound of the Dragon's exhale had his eyes shooting open again instinctively. He expected to see the rush of red, yellow, and orange, with that outline of bright blue, edged in green.

He did  _ not _ expect to see a wave of rippling air, gold tinged, come towards him, and engulf his form.

The pain took his breath away and, for a few moments, he blacked out.  

***~*~*~***

Viktor Krum and Fleur Delacour had been raised in a Magical Community vastly different from Britain's. In Bulgaria and France, there were immeasurably different laws regarding Creatures, and none of them were anywhere  _ near _ as restrictive and demoralizing as those in Britain, just like the laws concerning Dark Magic were much laxer in the other two countries. In fact, it was common for the Pureblood families in the two other countries to raise their children as Neutral until they reached their majority, at which time it was determined that they were mature enough to make their own choices considering Magical Alignment.

In fact, the Delacour's were vicious advocates against Britain's laws on creatures and, more importantly, half-creature. The Krum's, while not as politically inclined, had enough clout on their own to make sure that the Bulgarian Minister of Magic never considered any of the laws or regulations Fudge often suggested when they met at Conferences.

But at the moment, the two foreign Champions were sitting in the stands near the older Hogwarts Champion, and were staring in blank shock at the Hungarian Horntail the Dragon Handler's had set in the Arena. Viktor, who had been raised around Dragons all his life due to his father's status as Head Dragon Handler, recognized both the subtle changes in body posture and the rippling of magic about the massive creature that declared it to be more then it seemed. Fleur, with the Veela blood in her veins, could both feel and smell the difference between this Dragon and the others.

"Drayche," Krum murmured just loud enough for the French girl to hear. She sucked in a sharp breath and turned her wide blue eyes on him.

"Are you certain?" She asked softly in her heavy accent; Krum nodded slowly, watching avidly as Harry Potter stepped through the opening of the Champions Tent and into the Arena.

"My Father is a Handler," he murmured as the fourteen-year-old seemed to just stand there, face hard and calculating as he examined his opponent and the field.  _ 'Smart of him' _ the Bulgarian thought absently.

"I 'ave grown up vith Dragons, and met vith Drayches. My family is on close speaking terms vith the Ukrainian Ironbelly Drayches, the Kostyantyn Clan, who are a Vassal breed under the Chinese Fireball Drayches, a Royal breed, fourth of the lines beneath the Ruling Royal Line. We are in monthly contact vith the head of the Kostyantyn Clan, and know one another well.  _ That _ ," he said quietly, nodding toward the Horntail, "is a Drayche in their larger form."

Fleur would have been amused (this  _ was _ the most she'd ever heard her fellow Champion speak, beyond grunts and growls, that is), but the situation was far too worrying for her to smile.

"What about zee Treaty?" she asked softly, eyes darting over to watch as Harry finally moved, and approving of his cautiousness in immediately taking cover to, hopefully, come up with a steady plan.

"It is a simple matter of intent," he said calmly, and both were mildly impressed as they watched Harry turn himself invisible. "If you 'ave no intent to assist a Drayche with their plans, any information you pass to them vould be accepted vithout the consequence. And," he added with a small smile, "leaving scrolls of information around vithout thought of the Drayche specifically getting it helps. After all, if they happen to pick it up and read it, vell, _ you _ did nothing, yes?" The French girl smiled slightly, and both blinked in surprise at the smoke that filled the center of the Arena, before nodding in the most approving way.

"What do you zink zee Drayche ees 'ere for?" the girl asked him curiously, watching the Horntail snarl and attack the smoke filled area in front of her.

"I think Harry is a Halfling," Viktor replied without hesitation, eyes trained on the field, scouring for the young boy. Fleur's sharp intake of breath had him nodding.

"Zat  _ would _ explain eet," she murmured.

Even if she had grown up knowing more about creatures like her own families bloodline, even  _ she _ knew that the Drayches would be furiously protective of any and all children, including 'Halflings' as half-human/half-Creatures were called.

And, Harry  _ was _ fourteen, the age when the father in the coupling would be allowed to attempt to gain full custody or, at least, visitation privileges. As Harry's human family was killed, the two foreign Champions could only assume that his true father was a Drayche, and that the Horntail was there to retrieve him for his father.

The two sat in silence, until the unfortunate mishap happened, in which Harry was forced to reappear, with a horribly loud noise, directly behind the Horntail and in her nest of eggs. Fleur let out a horrified gasp as the Dragon snatched the small boy away from his goal and dropped him, the French girl's hands shooting up to cover her mouth as Harry landed with a cry, his left leg bending in an unnatural way, and then watched as he was pinned to the ground.

"Do something!" Cedric shouted towards the judges seats, where all the Headmasters sat, seemingly frozen in horror as they all watched the Dragon roar flames into the sky.

"Get the Handlers in there," Dumbledore ordered harshly, blue eyes bright in his pale face as his hands clenched in white-knuckled fists on the judges table. It was an order given too late, though, as the Drayche-in-disguise lowered her head, and took a deep breath to ready her flames…

And paused, head tilting slightly to the side as she stared down at her prey as if surprised.

"She has his scent," Viktor murmured to Fleur. "She knows he is a Halfling now."

Fleur nodded shakily, and reached over to grab and cling tightly to his hand to comfort herself, getting a bizarre look from the Bulgarian, before both refocused on the scene laying out. Dragon Handlers had entered the Arena, and were making their swift way towards the two in the very center, when the Horntail released her hold on Harry and lowered her head.

She took a deep breath, and Fleur's breath caught at the beautiful ripple of pure Magic that rolled from the Drayches great maw and covered the prone boy's form, hiding him from sight, for a few moments, due to the pure distortion of the air around him. When she sat back with an undeniably pleased expression, everyone in the crowd gasped and began to murmur amongst themselves. Fleur and Viktor could only stare in blank shock.

Where the small fourteen-year-old had laid, looking utterly fragile and tiny in comparison to the Horntail's massive size, a decidedly different being lay now, unconscious and limp. Harry's once raven-black, messy hair was now a bright, spring-leaf green, and in a series of messy spikes, sharp and pointy looking. His once unhealthily pale cream-colored skin was now a soft, mint green, and covering him in swirls and patterns, were bright emerald scales. He also looked to have gained at  _ least  _ some  inches in height, from his previous five-two. Or at least that's what Viktor's Seeker sharp eyes could tell from the distance he sat at.

The Horntail gave the boy's prone form once last assessing look, then turned and carefully used her left wing-claw to lift the gold egg from amongst her brood, turning and setting it beside the fourteen-year-olds body with a low rumble, then turned and acted as if he wasn't there, snuffling over her eggs and checking them over cautiously. The Handlers moved in and she growled at them, tail lashing, as they levitated Harry up off the ground from a safe distance, one grabbing his wand and the bent frames of his glasses, before they hastily left.

"He ees not a 'Alfling," Fleur breathed as the two Handlers carried Harry off.

"No," Viktor agreed, dark eyes staring blankly at the Horntail as she lay curled around her eggs like a cat.

"Harry Potter is a Drayche."


	4. Rúnda nach mó

**_Secret No More_ **

Bernadette Maks smiled to herself as she curled up in the cage the Romanian Dragon Handlers had provided her for her larger form. The Vassal Drayche had been deeply undercover for the past ten years, with only her specific Handler and the Head of the entire Reserve being aware of her true origins.

Her Majesty, Beta Queen Tanwen, had heard a rumor several years back that Wixen had something to do with the theft of the little Princeling, Prince Fidencio. Wanting to find a way to redeem herself after having failed in protecting that Prince, the youngest daughter of the Maks Clan Head, Bernadette had immediately volunteered. She had even gone so far as to lay a brood of eggs twice now, a feat which was only possible while holding her draconic form.

Now, in what would be the fourteenth year of the Lost Prince's life, she had finally succeeded in gaining entrance to a main Wixen institution, though it was not as her true self and rather as a Hungarian Horntail; to be used as an obstacle in some bastardized Tournament, but she had still been willing to call it a success.

And now it was more than a mere success. It was a  _ victory _ .

When she'd been placed in that damned, boxed in area, chained like a common  _ dog _ , she was glad for her more baser instincts being near the surface whenever she was in the Horntail's form, because if she hadn't been able to hide herself under layers of draconic reflexes and instincts and the feral thoughts provided, she just  _ knew _ she would have blown cover and done something that would have forced her King to hand her over to the Wixen, as is the Law of the Treaty.

And then they'd sent in that  _ child _ , the one who looked so small and thin and pale, but held hard eyes and a resolve that spoke of a full-grown man, ready to face his Fate, and give the bitch a piece of his mind. And buried deep beneath her form's natural primal instincts, the Vassal could readily admit that, in that moment, she admired the child.

And that admiration only grew as he succeeded in getting past her intense maternal instincts and, were it not for the malfunctioning of his Invisibility Spell, would have finished the challenge without having been burned, bruised, or bled at all! Still, she showed no sympathy as she snatched the little interloper out from amongst her brood and tossed him negligently at her feet, sensitive ears (though assaulted by the wretched noise of the crowd) heard clearly the  _ snap _ of his leg breaking against the unforgiving stone.

She pinned him beneath her strong hind-claw, and roared her victory, though her hidden, true self was saddened that she would have to kill the interesting, strong-willed child in order to keep her cover, because her Princeling was more important than some Wixen whelp.

So, imagine her surprise when she leaned down to give the little Wizard a quick, spectacularly flaming death out of respect and in apology, when she caught his scent; and was immediately assaulted by the smells of hazelnut, vanilla, mint, and that little whiff of cocoa that she remembered so well…

She had found her Princeling.

She had leaned in close to see him better look at him, pulling her hind-claw back quickly. She would have scowled at her Princeling's small form, too small by far to be healthy at all, and then her eyes had narrowed as she examined the magic hiding his natural form from her. It was Wixen Blood Magic, barbaric and crude, and she held back a derisive snort, not wanting to blow any of her forms Sulfur-rich smoke into the little Prince's lungs. The Blood Magic would be easy enough for her to overpower, she was, after all, the Vassal of Beta Queen Tanwen of the Onllwyn Clan, and she would  _ not _ fail her Queen again.

A gentle breath that held a little over a quarter of her inner core had her Princeling returning to his handsome true form, though he  _ was _ still a bit too short and thin for her to feel comfortable…

She had set his goal, the golden egg, beside his small form gently, and allowed him to be carried off by the Handlers, knowing that he would need some time to assimilate to his true form after so long, and that he would need to see for himself that the Wizards would not give him the truth. She had no doubt that he would seek out either the Handlers, or even herself personally, to get his answers.

And now, she would just have to wait, curling within her large, roomy cage, giving a low, pleased rumble as she thought of the expression her Queen would be wearing when Bernadette returned to the Fflamddwyn Palace with the Lost Prince.  

***~*~*~***

Albus Dumbledore was  _ not _ a happy Wixen at the moment. He had had a bad feeling about the Tri-Wizard Tournament, especially after Harry's name had come out of the Cup. He had put it off, however, thinking it was only the fact that his plans were once again being skewed by what must be another attempt of the weakened Voldemort to murder the 'Boy-Who-Lived'.

He had to admit, putting a Magic-resistant Creature disguised as a human, between Voldemort and his goal of Immortality and sole domination of the British Isles, had been one of his most ingenious plans, if he did say so himself. Molding that child through negligent Muggles had been an even better one. Manipulating Molly Weasley and having her and her strictly Light-oriented family meet up with the lost, 'orphaned' child had been a marvelous stroke of genius.

And now all that hard work, all that planning and careful management, had spiraled down into the sewage pipes, because one  _ stupid _ beast had to catch the idiotic brat's scent, and destroy all the spells keeping the boy looking like Harry Potter, and not whatever member of the Royal Breed of Drayches he truly was.

And, to make things worse, Madam Pomfrey had denied him or anyone else access to the Hospital Wing, going so far as to pull her wand on him and threaten to make his taste buds change, so that the  _ thought _ of a lemon drop would make him want to vomit.

It was safe to say that he immediately took his leave of the irate Mediwitch.

Now, though, he paced in the atrium outside the Wing, mind working furiously, trying to come up with a plan of some sort…

Suddenly, he paused.  _ 'Perhaps that would work…' _ he thought, carefully prodding the idea that had just spewed forth from the back of his mind. 

_ 'Yes… I think that will do quite well.' _ Beginning to feel the first tendrils of hope and relief coil about his mind, he smiled to himself and conjured a chair to sit in and concentrate on the details of the explanation he planned to give the boy when he awakened.

***~*~*~***

Harry Potter woke slowly, breathing slowly, the smell of freshly cleaned linen, some unscented cleaning supply, and honey-milk filtering through his nose, much stronger then they'd ever been before. They were all scents he associated with Madam Pomfrey, and thus, the Hospital Wing, and he grimaced to himself, keeping his eyes closed.  _ 'What did I do now?' _ he wondered, and slowly cracked his eyes open, expecting the unseemly blurriness he'd borne his entire life.

A starkly clear view of the ceiling greeted him instead, so fine he could count the bumps on the stone directly above his head, if he truly wanted to.

"What the bloody hell?" he asked, and flinched back slightly, startled at the sound of his voice, because he almost didn't recognize it at all.

It was softer toned, a little higher in pitch, and held such a harmonious quality to it that it was almost a crime to keep quiet; which was a vastly difficult thought and impulse to manage, especially considering that he'd never held any such thoughts in his head before.

He wondered if something horrible had happened to his vocal cords, and they'd had to be replaced with something magical Madam Pomfrey had had on hand at the time, and he would now have to live with a Magical Creature's voice instead of his own.

_ 'Let's face it,' _ he mentally said to himself wryly.  _ 'That  _ **_is_ ** _ something that would happen to me.'  _ With a sigh that disturbed him with its pretty sound, he uncomfortable silenced himself and tried to remember how he'd gotten there.

_ 'Fought with Ron over the Tournament, the prick. Um, walked along the edge of the Forest for a while. Went up against the Horntail, got caught, broke my leg (thank Merlin Madam Pomfrey has already healed that, wouldn't have been nice to wake up to at  _ **_all_ ** _ ), got hit with that wave of gold air-' _

"Oh!" he gasped, and his hand jumped up to covered his mouth as the sound took on a musical tone. He grimaced.  _ 'I sound like a bloody harp that talks, with a bit of violin or something mixed in,' _ he thought with a small scowl. It was then, as his hand moved to rub his face, that he caught sight of the changes. He stared, frozen, at his pale, long-fingered hand. 

Most importantly, at the pale  _ green _ skin that covered it, the nails sticking out past the tips by about a quarter of an inch, and pointed sharply, like claws. And then his sleeve fell back, and he stared at the spiral designs on his hand, that were a deep, emerald green, and looked strange. He discovered why they looked strange when he reached over with his other, equally changed hand, and touched the emerald designs hesitantly. The smooth bumps greeted him with soft clicks as his sharp nails dragged across them.

Scales.

He had scales.

And he was green, with a different voice, and had  _ bloody fucking  _ **_scales_ ** !

"What the bloody-"

"Mr. Potter!" Madam Pomfrey's scolding, disapproving voice cut through the rising panic, and had him sitting up sharply, turning his wild (unknowingly) acid green eyes on the middle-aged Wix.

"Madam Pomfrey?" he asked, beginning to shiver as he stared at her with enormous eyes, his musical new voice going high and gaining a bit of shrillness. The Mediwitch winced ever-so-slightly at the strident, painful sound, and bustled over to him swiftly.

"Calm yourself, Mr. Potter," she ordered sternly, "and I shall explain, understand?" Harry nodded and closed his eyes, hands curling into fists on either side of his thighs, cutting into the blanket they clutched, as he took slow, steady breaths, trying to calm.

When he was sufficiently composed, he opened his eyes again and nodded hesitantly at her, wanting to understand what was going on, but feeling unbelievably  _ different _ , and frightened, unsure if what he was about to be told would be… prudent, at the moment.

"Well, Mr. Potter," the aged Mediwitch began, flicking her wand and making a nearby chair slide over so that she could sit down across from him primly. "I have the dubious pleasure of informing you that you are not, in fact, the born son of Lily and James Potter."

Harry stared at her, mouth open slightly, and an utterly dazed, bewildered look entering his bright eyes and sliding across his face. He opened his mouth and closed it again, a few times. After about a minute of this silent struggle, he swallowed thickly, his Gryffindor courage being pulled on firmly.

"W-what?" he finally whispered, his tone uncertain and sounding unbearably small; Madam Pomfrey gave him a soft, sadly sympathetic look, though her expression remained its stern self.

"I am afraid it's true, dear," she told him in an equally quiet voice. "The fact that you changed so drastically when met with the power of Dragon Magic, is just proof of it. Had you only been a Halfling, meaning one of your human parents was either Lily or James, then you would have only gained the scales, in far less quantity, and perhaps the voice and growth-spurt. Unfortunately, that is not the case, as you have noticed. That could only mean that you were either adopted by Lily and James after they found you, or," she hesitated, and took a deep breath.

"Or  _ someone _ has been testing the boundaries of the Treaty, and had you placed with the Potters. The fact that you tested as human under even  _ my _ diagnostic spells, when I was once a Matron at St. Mungo's Pediatric Ward, confirms that someone used extremely Dark Blood Magic to contort your very  _ species _ . This leads me to assume that you must have been placed with the Potters for a very specific reason, as opposed to the much more pleasant option."

Harry began to tremble harshly, hyperventilating, before he dug his new claws deep into the bed, puncturing it with soft, little  _ pop _ sounds. He closed his eyes and struggled to calm himself for several minutes, despairing inwardly and finally releasing a low, broken-sounding keen that was far from human.  _ 'Not that I ever was,' _ he thought with dazed bitterness.

It took nearly ten minutes to regain control of himself, and to stop issuing those strange, hauntingly painful sounding keens. Madam Pomfrey had left him alone for a few minutes, only to return with a glass of water and a sad look in her eyes. He accepted the water, took two large gulps, before forcing himself to only sip it.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, until his water was gone, and then the Mediwitch took it and set it on the side table, where, he noticed with a flare a vicious resentment, the golden egg sat next to his wand and the horribly damaged remains of his glasses. He hissed softly, glaring at the metal structure that was the cause of this mess-

_ 'No,' _ he mentally corrected himself, eyes narrowing further.  _ ' _ **_Someone_ ** _ is the cause of all this, and it happened well before I was entered in this bloody Tournament. And when I find out who has been dragging my life about like it's a bloody  _ **_toy_ ** _ , I will  _ **_burn them_ ** _.' _ He pulled himself abruptly away from the violent image of some faceless person screaming as he smothered them in flames (which he somehow sent  _ out his mouth _ !), he turned his sharp, calculating attention on the Mediwitch across from him.

"What am I, Madam Pomfrey?" he asked her warily, rubbing the scales wrapped around his right forearm with his left hand absently.

"You, Mr. Potter, are a Drayche," she said simply, quietly. "Drayches are better known as the humanoid, intelligent cousins of Dragons, their protectors and Rulers, as a matter of fact. There are eleven different species of Drayche, and thirteen different Clans. The eleven Drayches are split into three categories: the Royals, who came first and are the most intelligent, the Vassals, who came second and are of a mild lesser intelligence, but are more battle-inclined, and the Neutral, which is a single Clan, who have both the intelligence of the Royals and the battle-readiness of the Vassals.

“The Royal lines consist of six different species, and eight Clans. They are the ones who hold specific territories and can declare truces or feuds amongst themselves as they wish. The Vassals, are four different species, and four Clans, and their purpose is to serve the top four, oldest species of Royal Drayches. The single Neutral Clan is the species mediator, and are willing to aid any Drayche that comes to them, if the price is right, of course. They're sort of like mercenaries, in a way. Do you understand everything thus far, dear?" she asked kindly, and Harry nodded slowly with a slightly lost look.

"It's a lot to take in," he murmured, and winced slightly at his voice again, before silently sighing and deciding he'd have to get used to the bloody thing. "Please continue Madam Pomfrey," he requested, and the Mediwitch nodded primly.

"Now, the Royal Clans," she said, voice falling into a lecturing tone that made the fourteen-year-old listening to her smile slightly. "The first and foremost is the Ruling Line, the Fflamddwyn Clan, and their lesser line, the Onllwyn Clan, who is simply a split group from the main line. These Clan's are both uniformly similar to the Dragon breed, the Common Welsh Green, and are prominent rulers of the United Kingdom's territories. The Fflamddwyn rule over all the Drayches, and the King's final word is just that, for everyone. The second Line in the Royal breeds are the Brandubh Clan, who come from the Hebridean Black Dragons. They lay claim to the rest of Scotland, and Iceland as well. The third Line is that of the Einar Clan, who come from the Swedish Short-Snout's, and reside over Sweden and most of Switzerland, surprisingly enough."

"The fourth Line also splits into two Clans, like the Ruling Line. The first and foremost Clan are the He-ping, while the second, lesser Clan are the Yun. They come from the Chinese Fireball, and hold a rather comfortable grip over China and most of Japan and the Koreas. The fifth Line are the Marquez Clan, from the Peruvian Vipertooth Dragons. They preside over Peru in South America only. And, the last of the Royal breed, are the Alohanani Clan, from the Antipodean Opaleye Dragons, the most beautiful Dragons in the world. They have control of New Zealand, and a several handfuls of small islands ranging across the Pacific Ocean."

"That's a lot to take in," Harry murmured; Madam Pomfrey gave him a sympathetic nod. "So, I'm from the Common Welsh Green line?" he asked, lifting his hands to stare at them with a bit of wariness.

"Yes," she told him simply. "And I rather hope you're an Onllwyn, because if you're a Fflamddwyn then there is absolutely no doubt in my mind that you will be immediately seized, no matter your wishes. The Onllwyn's, at least, will give you a choice, probably in going with them or staying here, with one of their Vassals as a guard and guide." Harry reached up and gingerly rubbed his forehead, wearily trying to sort the information out.

"Would you like the information on the Vassal and Neutral breeds, dear?" The Mediwitch asked; Harry grimaced.

"Er, not now, thank you, Madam Pomfrey," he told her. "How do you know all this, anyways?" She gave him a faint smile.

"I've healed and dealt with Halflings during my service at St. Mungo's, Mr. Potter. And I met several Drayche parents that wished to reassure themselves that their little ones were safe. You tend to gather the strangest information when you deal with nervous parents." She looked amused, and Harry cracked a weak smile.

Madam Pomfrey stood, smoothing out her skirts absently. "Now, Mr. Potter," she said, voice and expression once more stern and business-like. "I know you've just woken, and have gained a rather large amount of information, however, I believe that the Headmaster wishes to speak with you. The silly man has been pacing about outside the doors for a while now." She shook her head with a small, disapproving scowl, and moved towards the doors.

"Madam Pomfrey?" Harry asked suddenly, staring at his hands clasped together between his knees. "Does the Headmaster know what's happened to me? And that I'm… I'm a Drayche?" He asked hesitantly.

"Of course he does, Mr. Potter," the Mediwitch told him, blinking with a slash of suspicion-filled curiosity at her most frequent patient.

"He has made the acquaintance of Drayches in his time as Headmaster, and even before that, when he was the Transfiguration Professor, years ago."

She pursed her lips and eyed him as Harry simply nodded at the information, and then she turned and continued her way to the Hospital Wing doors, opening one and sticking her head out to call to the elderly Wizard. Dumbledore followed her back to Harry's bed, smiling benignly at the teen without a sign of discomfort at his new appearance at all.

"Hello Harry, my boy," he said, voice kind as Madam Pomfrey left them be.

"You've gotten into another mess, I see," a hint of teasing laced with amusement, had Harry grinning up at him sheepishly, though he was gritting his teeth, the Headmaster's tone grating on something in his instincts that unnerved him dreadfully.

"Yes, sir," the fourteen-year-old replied in his new voice; Dumbledore's brows lifted slightly in surprise.

"I shouldn't be surprised, of course," the Headmaster continued, taking a seat in the chair Madam Pomfrey had abandoned. "Trouble  _ does _ seem to find you often, dear boy." Harry nodded and looked down at his hands again, twisting and fiddling with his fingers.

"Do you know what happened, sir?" Harry asked quietly, not looking up as he examined his claws. Dumbledore gave him another kind, grandfatherly smile; though his eyes held a cold, calculating gleam.

"Of course, my boy," he said calmly. "When you nearly beat the Horntail, managing to make it within the very center of her nest, she attacked; a rational thing for a mother Dragon to do. However, when she got close enough to catch your scent, I believe she smelled both your Magic and the serpentine quality to it that allows you to speak Parseltongue.

“This, of course, must have confused her and, in her confusion, she sought to make you more similar to your scent, using quite a dose of her Wilde Magic to do so. And so, your Magic, without any choice when overpowered as it was, forced you to transform into a shape that would be better able to deal with the sudden influx, and thus complied with the Dragon's wishes. Once she saw you changed, she lost interest, as you were now just a hybrid and not a threat to her or her clutch. Do you understand, my boy?" he asked gently, voice soft. Harry clenched his hands tightly, keeping his head bowed, acid-green eyes half-lidded as he held his temper back at the old man's  _ lie _ .

"Yes sir," he said, beautiful new voice holding a grim note that made it soft and somber and vaguely chilling. "I understand  _ perfectly _ ."

"Wonderful, my boy!" Dumbledore said jovially. He stood and placed a hand on Harry's shoulder, before pulling it away.

"Now, you will be pleased to know that you are currently in third place, behind young Misters Krum and Diggory. You most probably would have gotten first, dear boy, but your grievous injury and circumstance; and the fact that the egg was only gained after you had already fallen unconscious, went against you. The next Task isn't for another few months, so you are safe until then. Rest well, my boy," he finished, and nodded to Harry before striding from the room.

Harry waited until the door closed before he lifted his head slowly, acid-green eyes blazing brightly, and a low, melodic growl curling from deep within his throat, gaining volume steadily, until he finally snarled and shoved himself to his feet, ignoring the light twinge in his left leg.

Angrily, he began to pace furiously, reaching up and dragging his hand through his hair, noticing immediately the strange spikiness that it held, harder than hair should be, but still soft beneath his skin.

"Mr. Potter!" Madam Pomfrey exclaimed minutes later when she bustled towards him. "What do you think you're doing out of bed, young man?" Harry glowered but returned grudgingly to the bed, not wanting to upset her.

"He lied to me," he told her, voice hard, the notes in it sharp and flat at the same time, creating a discordant tune that had a wealth of intonation issues. "He lied to me to my face, Madam Pomfrey, and then informed me that I'll be continuing in this blasted Tournament." He lifted angry, lost eyes to meet the older woman's beseechingly.

"What do I do, ma'am?"

She huffed out an annoyed sigh and gave him a stern once-over.

"I suppose I could let you leave early this  _ one time _ ," she muttered, scowling at his startled expression. "Do not get used to it, Mr. Potter," she said sharply, eyes narrowing. "I am no pushover, and I expect you to stay in that bed a day longer than strictly necessary next time you find yourself in my Infirmary, understand, young man?" Harry nodded eagerly and leapt to his feet.

"I promise, Madam Pomfrey," he assured her, smiling, anger momentarily forgotten in place of the relief he always felt with the news that he could leave the Hospital Wing. "Thank you very much, ma'am!" Madam Pomfrey gave a soft scoff and made shooing motions with her hands, expression a mixture of exasperation and fondness.

Harry gave her a warm, pleased smile, and walked quickly out of the Wing, a barely noticeable limp to his steps. He was quickly on his way to the Gryffindor Dormitories, wondering how he would explain his changes to his friends… Well, Hermione and the Twins, at any rate.

Mood souring, he started up the stairs.


	5. Coimhlint agus Réiteach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last of the chapters we wrote years ago. If I ever get motivated to write more, I'll add it

**Conflict and Solution**

Viktor stared down at the piece of parchment trying to rearrange his thoughts into proper words, for his father and Vasyl Kostyantyn, the Head of the Ironbelly Drayche clan. The day had been trying, and now he needed to write the letter to his father, but he could not get the image of Harry Potter turning into a full Drayche, not the Halfling he had believed him to be, out of his head.

Viktor had seen the new form of Harry Potter, after the Handlers had gotten him on a Conjured stretcher. Green, everything had turned green. No Halfling had that major of a change, so that meant only one thing. Viktor wasn’t stupid, his family had been secretly looking for the Lost Prince these past fourteen years.

Harry Potter- no, Prince Fidencio, had been under highly illegal Blood Magic and kidnapped. And Viktor knew that it had been a Maks female disguised as the Hungarian Horntail now, and she would be taking Prince Fidencio back to his parents. Shaking off those thoughts, Viktor turned back to his writing.  

_ Dear Father, _

_ I hope this letter is finding you and mother well. I have succeeded in the First Task, tying for first place with one of the Hogwarts Champions, Cedric Diggory. But that is not why I have written this letter, father. As you well know, Beta Queen Tanwen of the Drayches has been having her spies look for her kidnapped Drakeling, Prince Fidencio. Father, I have found him and whoever kidnapped him had their partner use a highly illegal Blood Ritual to make him human, and then had him Blood Adopted. _

_ I only know this because I had thought that the one who is Prince Fidencio was really a Halfling, but that turned out to be not true. Father, Harry Potter is Prince Fidencio. I had heard him growling in the tent while we were waiting for our turns, and it sounded much like a harp. And, when it was his turn, the Hungarian Horntail was, in fact, a Maks in disguise. She caught his scent, and used her Magic to negate the Blood Ritual and Adoption to return Prince Fidencio back to his true form. _

_ Father, you must tell Vasyl Kostyantyn what has happened, I have the feeling that the Royal Family will be in for a surprise in a few days. The British Wizards will lie to Prince Fidencio, and he will be very confused and have his instincts clamoring for his parents or a Drayche. It is the nature of such a young Creature to look for the protection of his elders, after all, as it is the nature of these backwards people to believe that they can control him through lies. It will come back to bite them in the end, however, as we both know. _

_ With love and hope, _

_ Viktor _

He looked over his letter, tweaking a few words, before with a quick drying Charm, Viktor folded and sealed the letter into an envelope. Whistling, he held out an arm for his Eagle Owl, Gita. Murmuring a few spells in Bulgarian, he set her lose to fly to his father. And now, all he could do was wait and watch.

***~*~*~***

Severus could feel the weight that had been crushing him for over fourteen years lift from his shoulders. Finally, finally someone had made a move. The Life Debt and Oaths he’d been forced to carry were no more, the old bastard could go choke on one of his precious lemon drops, for all Severus cared. He watched from his hidden spot, while Potter- no make that Prince Fidencio, was taken to the Hospital Wing. He followed Dumbledore discreetly; he could  _ feel _ the panic and anger rolling off the elderly Wizard.

And he watched as Dumbledore spun his lie to the young Drayche, but whereas the old bastard only saw his Pawn, confused and blind to his manipulations. Severus saw the clenched fists and the hidden glare, the quick flash of anger in those acid green eyes. He knew then that the young Prince could see through the lies, Madam Pomfrey had probably told him the truth then.

The Old Coot, blinded by his panic and belief in his utter control over, well,  _ everything _ , had probably convinced himself that she had followed his instructions to inform him  _ immediately _ after the Prince had awakened, and no doubt didn't think that the Mediwitch would defy him and tell the boy anything without the Headmasters consent. And, of course, Madam Pomfrey  _ had  _ informed the boy, most likely of  _ everything _ she knew of the problem at hand.

Good, the woman was living up to her reputation, then.

Severus left, then; he had a letter to write. Swiftly, he made his way down into the dungeons and stopped in front of a painting of two Drayches, from the Halvard clan, hiding in their draconic forms (as if Dumbledore would allow paintings of Drayches in their  _ true _ forms to be wandering about the school, free of his control and able to leave at a moment's notice to report on  _ his _ actions… But what the Old Coot didn't know could be vastly entertaining).

Murmuring his password (Belladonna) to the painting, it swung back enough for him to slip in. Quickly, Severus put up wards around his rooms. Now, safe within his chambers, behind his spells, with no spying spells or charms in the walls, he sat down at his desk.

He'd known since the beginning that the child was not Lily’s son. The two, once very close friends, secretly re-established their friendship a month after their falling out. So, Severus had been the first to know about her pregnancy, and then the miscarriage. Lily had come rushing to him, tears of joy falling from her jade green eyes. Dumbledore had found a child who she and James could Blood Adopt, and right around the time she would have had her baby. It was a miracle.

He’d smiled and congratulated her, but a sick feeling had risen up when he’d heard from his distant cousin, months later, that the newborn Prince of King Cadwaladr and Beta Queen Tanwen had been kidnapped. And the babe that Lily had Blood Adopted, Severus had been able to smell a tiny hint of mint and Drayche on the boy before the Ritual had been completed.

When his dear friend had brought the child to him with her bastard of a husband and the Old Coot trailing behind, so that he could brew the required potions and meet the child at the same time (Potter had looked constipated in his attempt at a dark scowl, and Severus smirked slightly at the memory). And that sick feeling had become complete and utter shock and betrayal. Not at Lily, or even that bastard Potter, but at Dumbledore and his accomplice, whomever that fool was.

Someone, a Drayche, had betrayed their King and Queens and was blatantly breaking the Treaty, something that would mean a horrendous death at the hands of the Ministry of Magic, most likely the Unspeakable Division, to be experimented on and dissected  _ alive _ . It was a fate very few dared to face, not since the first few had gained the punishment for the treasonous act.

But, by then, Severus had been under a Life Debt, and then forced into an Oath; he could do nothing, but wait and watch and play the role of hating “Potter’s spawn”, even though all he had wanted to do was steal the boy away and take him to his ancestors clan, the Halvards. He only gave a silent prayer of thanks that Dumbledore's attempted Obliviation had failed, having hit him in the back of the head, the only place his scales (the only fragments of his long-diluted heritage he had gained) grew, just as magic-resistant as his ancestors.

But now, now he could make his move. Smirking to himself, Severus could not wait for everything to blow up in that manipulating bastard's face. Getting out parchment, ink, and a quill, he started writing to his distant cousin, Klarusia Halvard, Vassal to Zephira Brandubh.

***~*~*~***

The silence when Harry stepped through the Portrait Hole was not one that deafened, but one that  _ drowned _ , that filled the mind and covered the thoughts, until nothing but a thin, wailing panic remained, crying like a terrified child in the back of his head as he stared in frozen, blank uncertainty at the unfriendly, wary stares of his Housemates. 

He took a slow, shallow breath, swallowed, and stepped farther into the room, chin lifting, and started into the crowd, biting back a flinch when his classmates, his  _ friends _ , pulled away as if he had a deadly, contagious disease, several sneering, some grimacing, and those farther back watching with indifference and curiosity. Hermione met his eyes tearfully, but glanced away again, biting her lip and clutching a thin, old book close. He caught a glimpse of the title and understood.  

_ Drayches and Their Kin _

He pushed aside the hurt that boiled up in his heart, and made his swift way up the staircase and into the boys dorm, noticing that his bed had been shoved far away from the others, his trunk as well, and that his mattress lay on the floor. His curtains, sheets, blankets, and pillows were all missing.

_ 'Suppose I should be glad I got Sirius to put those privacy Wards on my trunk to keep others out,' _ he thought with bitter tiredness as he moved towards his trunk. He pressed his finger to the lock, feeling the prick of the needle that tested his blood, and then the small wave of foreign Magic that tasted his own, before the trunk unlocked with a deep  _ click _ . Harry immediately pushed open the lid, and stripped from his Champion clothes, pausing to stare down at his uniformly green body with disbelief and wariness.

Scales swirled decoratively from his back, across his waist, and split to spiral in beautiful designs on either side of his belly-button, above and below. More scales swirled down his thighs, including small, delicate ones dusting along the inside of his legs and the crease between his pelvis and thigh. They coiled around the back of his calves, twisted around to the front of his ankles, and trailed down to the tops of his feet to leave a delicate whirlpool-like swirling pattern.

Altogether, they were rather beautiful.

Suddenly feeling the utter  _ lack _ of awkwardness about the fact that he was just standing there, naked, and looking at himself, Harry scrambled to pull on the too-large, loose folds of what had once been Dudley's clothes, the dark red pants folded up several times at the ankles and folded a few times at the waist, where it was tied firmly in place with a worn, tough length of rope.

The old, dark purple shirt clashed with both his pants and new skin color, but it was loose and surprisingly comfortable, so he didn't mind. Finishing, he hesitated, before resolutely pulling his tattered old Trainers back on his feet, and then pulled his Invisibility Cloak out, folding it until it was as small as it could go, and then he stuffed it into his pocket. He had a feeling he wouldn't be sleeping in the Dorm or Common Room-or even in Gryffindor Tower as a whole-this night.

Looking through his trunk, he nodded, closed it, and pressed the succession of Runes that would make it shrink, and slipped it into the opposite pocket as his Cloak, before he turned and left the Dorm after taking a fortifying breath.

_ 'Time to face the lynch-mob,' _ he thought, and then wondered if it wouldn't be a witch-burning mob. But then he reconsidered, as he wasn't,  _ technically _ , a witch (well, Wizard, but you get the point). His scattered, distracted thoughts carried him all the way into the suddenly-silent Common Room, and he lifted his eyes to blink back into focus, just in time to find himself held at wand-point by none other than his  _ already _ ex-Best Friend, Ron Weasley, who had an ugly sneer on his face (which, Harry noted, made the redhead look like a watered-down, less-fat version of his cousin… Well, the boy he'd been led to  _ believe _ was his cousin, at least…).

"What do  _ you _ want?" Harry asked with a narrow-eyed look, his melodious voice taking on sharp, angry notes. Half the room stiffened at the sound, and a few of the upper years even hissed. Ron's sneer spread, and Harry noted that his similarity to Dudley deepened with the vaguely-constipated appearance.

"What  _ we all _ want, is for you to get out of our school, you great bloody lizard  _ freak _ !" the youngest Weasley son snarled; Harry showed him a  _ true _ snarl, with the sound of harsh, discordant bass notes clashing together and the rumble of thunder in the background, as something rose up in his chest, roiling in response to that damned,  _ loathed _ word.

"You've no right to tell me what to do,  _ Weasel _ ," he hissed, the thin sound of a bow barely sliding upward against an instruments highest note string.

The fine hairs on everyone's necks rose and many shuddered, shifting back nervously at the  _ inhuman _ sound. Ron's sneer faltered as he instinctively stepped back, before he pulled on that infamous Gryffindor courage (or stupidity) and renewed his expression.

"Yeah, well, this is a  _ wizard school _ , and  _ you _ are nothing but a nasty, poofter of a lizard  _ freak! _ "

Harry saw red for a moment, and the sound the ripped from his throat was high-pitched and painfully strident, the sound of the violin bow scraping the thinnest strings without care, of nails against chalkboards and yowling cats and shattering glass, all mixed into a tear-wrenching, eye-gouging painful, inhuman sound. Everyone in the Common Room cried out, clamping hands over their ears, and Ron was included, dropping his wand in his pain.

But Harry wasn't finished.

That roiling, building feeling deep in his chest rose up his throat, like bile but not as painful, and spewed out of his mouth in a thin, painfully bright stream of flame that slashed through the air with a rippling wave of  _ heat _ , to hungrily leap onto the staggering, pained Weasley's clothes and hair, and soon the sound of his high-pitched screams joined the echo of Harry's own cry, and students screams joined as well as the boy threw himself away, towards the floor, where he rolled, clawing at himself, until a terrified Seventh Year finally shouted a water spell and doused the flames.

Harry stood, gasping, a snarl still twisting his lips, that discordant growl still thrumming his chest, until two pairs of identical hands grabbed him and roughly yanked him from the room.

"Percy get Ronnikins to Madam Pomfrey," Fred (or was it George?) ordered from Harry's left, face unusually hard and serious as he glared unflinchingly about him, his Twin wearing a similar expression. The growl in Harry's chest got louder as the Twin's hands tightened to the point just before pain on his arms.

"We'll just be taking little Harry here to see McGonagall, yeah?" The Twin on his right commented, and they frog-marched the newly-realized Drayche from the Common Room quickly, people all but diving from their path to stay out of Harry's line of sight as he continued to snarl and growl.

As the Portrait Hole slammed shut behind them, the Twins loosened their holds, and shifted them, until they were gripping Harry's hands, and began to run, their long strides forcing Harry's legs wide, to lope after them in an almost leaping fashion, pain zigzagging up his left leg every time he landed on it, eyes wide in shock, and growls forgotten as his energy turned to keeping up with his taller Housemates, and breathing (which had become difficult as a stitch made itself swiftly known in his right side).

"Come on, Harry!" both of the Twins called in unison as they pulled him to the staircases, and they took them at the same speed.

Harry feared, abruptly, for his life, and wondered if Madam Pomfrey would have still let him leave early if she'd known he'd be moving around so much so soon after having his broken leg fixed again…

He seriously doubted it, and the pain coursing up the limb, getting steadily worse with their rapid descent, was proof enough that she would be right to scold him for the vigorous activity. The Twins yanked him harshly, and Harry could have sworn he'd gotten whiplash as his feet skid on the floor while they turned into a corridor.

They ran down it, all three of them gasping for breath, and came to a sliding stop before a painting of a bowl of fruit, with Harry slamming into the backs of the two Beaters. The one on his right grinned down at him, while the left Twin quickly tickled the pear in the painting.

When the hidden door swung open, they yanked him into the kitchens, and slammed it shut behind them, before turning and giving him identical, mischievous grins, despite the fact they were panting harder than he was.

"What the bloody hell?!" Harry spluttered, gasping, and groaned as he leaned back against the closed entrance weakly, trying to take his weight off of his recently healed leg. The Twins bowed to him, and began their usual spiel of finishing the others sentence, starting with the Twin on his left.

"Oh Master of Chaos-"

"We are unworthy worms-"

"Utterly, unbelievably humbled by your sheer-"

" _ Brilliance _ in all things that cause-"

" _ Pandemonium _ . Please allow us-"

"You're lowly slaves-"

"To aid you in your escape," they finished together; Harry stared at them in stunned silence, eyes wide, round, and owlish.

"Let me get this straight," he began slowly. "You want to help me get away from the school… Because it'll cause trouble?" They grinned and nodded rapidly.

"See, me and Fred here," Left-Twin (now- _ supposedly _ -exposed as George), "we hate monotony."

"Real boring, that," Fred agreed. "So, what better way to stir-"

"The muck than to help-"

"The Drayche-Boy-Who-Lived run-"

"Away from the Wizarding World?" They asked, cocking their heads toward each other so that their temples brushed, grinning at him. Harry stared, blinking slowly, a little dazed from the tennis-match that is the Twins speech.

"'Sides," George said. "You really think we'd believe you-"

"Aren't going to try and locate your Drayche family?" Fred finished, and both arched the opposite eyebrow of their twin, and Harry felt a stirring of sympathy for all adults who dealt with the two on a daily basis.

If he had a headache after ten minutes, he couldn't begin to imagine the migraine of  _ years _ of exposure to them. Still, they hadn't abandoned him like everyone else seemed to have, and they  _ were _ trying to help him…

In their strange, misguided, utterly  _ them _ sort of way.

"Alright," he finally sighed, slumping in defeat. "What should I do?" The sly grins he received made him very, very nervous...

***~*~*~***

Harry slipped carefully through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, clutching his Invisibility Cloak around him as the sound of the Twin's Fireworks exploded behind him. They were prototypes, ones they hadn't meant to reveal until Fifth Year, but for Harry's “Most Daring Escape” they would do it. A few fireworks, and a little help from an over-eager Dobby, and Harry was out on the grounds while everyone was inside, running about like headless chickens. He could only hope the rest of the plan worked as he pushed through some bushes and hesitantly entered the clearing that held the Dragons.

A few Handlers were moving about, trying to calm the Dragons as they shifted and growled uneasily at the sounds coming from the direction of the castle. Harry crept carefully pass them all, until he reached the largest of the cages, where he stopped at the open bars and stared into the not-so-dark gloom.

His eyesight at night, while not perfect, was much clearer now than it ever had been, and he could easily make out the form of the Hungarian Horntail. Glancing over to the Handlers, he took a deep breath and carefully squeezed through the bars, thankful that, while he'd gained some height, he hadn't gained any muscle or fat, and could make it through the thin space between the thick, magic-enforced bars.

Once inside, he cautiously took off his Cloak, folding it up and slipping it into his pocket again, and, suddenly feeling even more nervous and unsure, shuffled in place for a few minutes, before sliding slowly towards the massive female. He pressed his back against the cage wall and slipped around her shoulder and carefully stepped over the edge of her clawed wing, before he found himself looking at the side of her sleeping face.

He just stopped and looked at it for a moment, looking at the differences, tilting his head to the side. His scales were round and smooth, but her's were almost diamond-shaped, and arched out in the centers like small prisms, and, when he peered closer, he saw that the ones on her cheek and across her beak-like snout were decorated in tiny, gold specks, like, well, freckles.

Then there was the beak itself, sharp and curving and dark brown/black, with little arching holes for nostrils, and a slight jaggedness to the underside, as if it was serrated...

Glancing slowly over her face, he froze as one large orb of bright, dandelion-yellow watched him examine her.

Immediately, Harry swallowed and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly, trying to keep the panic away as she lifted her large head and tilted it.

“Hullo,” he muttered with uncertainty; she let out a low, throaty croon, and pushed herself to her feet, making Harry stumble back a few steps in instinctual reaction.

When she was up, her wing claws rested on either side of her knees so she was more crouching than standing, she shook her large head sharply, the larger, spiked scales farther back behind her eyes clacking against her horns, and then was drenched in a dim, golden light, much like the wave of gold Harry remembered hitting him during the Tournament. In about thirty seconds, the light shrank, and she disappeared.

In her place was a tall, broad, muscled woman, with brown skin, black hair that was short and spiky like his own, and bright yellow eyes. Her wings, still clawed, fluttered and folded against her back, and her tail, much smaller but no less deadly, scraped against the ground as she curled it close to her ankles.

She smiled at him, teeth bright white and sharp, and walked towards him, opening her muscular arms wide, and Harry noticed that she, too, was decorated with scales, the same, diamond-shaped, prism'd scales of her larger form, a darker, richer brown against her skin, and that her nails were long, curved talons, and pure black.

That was all he got to notice before those large arms were wrapped around him, and he was lifted into the air and cradled firmly in a sense of safety and strange familiarity.

"Little Prince, I have found you,” the Drayche murmured, voice deep with a slight German accent, and Harry found himself breathing in the scent of leather, smoke, and linens as he laid his head against her shoulder.

He'd ask his questions...

After the hug.


End file.
